We kept waiting. The wind was up.

Rain rallied. The plumbing griped.

And we were just large, disappointed

stomachs devouring ourselves

and one boxset after another.

Murder mysteries were best: eccentrics

in scenes with solid aesthetics—and often snow.

Evil seems to incubate in its warm hollows,

crimes obscured then shown up red.

We felt guilty for wanting deaths,

then for wanting snow. And guilty

for not knowing why, or what it would mean—

but thinking that if it begins and lays,

if it could consolidate, make it through

a night, a next day…

We lost all cravings but remained hungry,

enormously weary but never ready for bed.

We lay sleepless until we woke to dark

and the sense of the unsolved case. We looked

to our windows as if they were TVs.